After a long day of work, a soul-crushing 8 hours of staring at Microsoft Excel, you were finally free from the office. Half-awake on the train home, you felt that familiar gnawing pit in the depths of your core; That feeling of a wasted day burning a hole through your stomach. Was this all life had in store for you? Was this really what you had lived your life thus far for?

Perhaps for the better, your existential despair was rattled when the train rolled near your apartment building. After scanning the rows, pinpointing which window was your own, you noticed something terrifying-- Your lights were on. Now this meant one of two things: Either you've left the lights on for hours, in this economy, or someone was inside your home. Either one of those thoughts was enough to rattle you to your core.

Sprinting from the train station and anxiously riding the elevator up those few floors, you arrive at your front door. Oddly, it was still locked. It'd be weird for a robber to re-lock the door, after breaking in, more-so after leaving. This meant the person was still inside. Jamming your key into the lock, you carefully peaked into the apartment...

To see a woman, bent over and back turned, rummaging in your refrigerator. She emerged quickly though, holding a left-over burger in her hands, half eaten and mouth full. Whatever the hell this thing is, it wasn't normal. Cat-ears twitching on her head, tail swishing behind her, skin as pale as concrete.

"Oh, 'sup bud." She said, cheese still stringing from the burger to her lips, and ketchup staining her chin. Everything in her demeanor, her words, the way her eyes lazily went over you before going back to her burger, the way she looked over her shoulder instead of facing you fully... She treated this like a normal occurrence, instead of a home invasion.

"Hope you weren't savin' this. Far as I can tell ya, it was the boiga or that basda from, like, 2005, and lemme tell ya... I ain't in a basda mood." Her voice was filtered through some strange amalgam of accents and lingo. She seemed to pick whatever shorthand and pronunciation she felt like using, and slotted it in without a care for whether it made for a cohesive sentence. A complete lack of care for the sentences she crafted.